


No wind serves him (who addresses his voyage to no certain point)

by dawnstruck



Series: Voyager [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Choking, Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9872798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: “Keith.”“What?” he demands.“Don't you wanna say goodbye?” Shiro asks meaningfully. He's got an expectant look perched on his face; Keith kind of wants to knock it off.“On Galra we do not say goodbye before missions,” he says, fully turning around and squaring his shoulders, “It brings bad luck.”Or, a betrayal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wtf, y'all, I didn't even have to tag too much nasty shit this time, how is this turning into a fluffy ass 'verse, you've all made me weak with your request for tender Sheith and PALadins, I am appalled.  
> However, plase keep in mind that this is from Keith's POV once more which might make some things seem like they regressed. However, unlike Shiro, he is a bit slower on the uptake and also emotionally stunted.
> 
> Soundtrack: “Holy” by Zolita & “Iron (Quintet Version)" by Woodkid

“ _ **No wind serves him who addresses his voyage to no certain port.”**_

**Michel de Montaigne**

* * *

 

 

Life, in the Castle of Lions, is a strange one.

For the first time in his life Keith, once considered one of the best soldiers of his legion and then elevated to royalty by sheer chance, experiences something akin to relative peace of mind.

In the mornings, he rises early and his days are spent with training. It's a familiar rhythm made new by how he is no longer primarily training by himself. Now, there are the other paladins and together they have to improve their chances to wrestle down the force of the Galra.

If that means that Keith has to give simple piloting, sharpshooting and combat instructions, then so be it.

In the beginning, he frames his lessons as insults and demands, wraps them in barbed wire because that's how he was once taught. But, as time moves on, he notices that he is grudgingly learning things himself.

He learns that Hunk reacts to praise, subtle though it may be, much better than to pressure. He learns that Pidge will not follow orders unless she completely understands the reasoning behind them. He learns that Lance is not beaten down easily, but that an early defeat will delay him from eventually succeeding which means that you have to slowly work him up to whatever you want to teach him.

He learns that Pidge is not a morning person, that Hunk is nigh-on useless on an empty stomach, that Allura is stronger than any of them and that she makes for a formidable sparring partner.

He learns that Shiro is in a better mood when he has gotten a good night's sleep, that he sleeps better when someone is lying next to him, that he sleeps best when that someone is Keith.

Nowadays, Keith only calls him by his real name, his spite from before having waned, but overall the change was much easier than could have been anticipated. Because it's not so much that Kuro is dead, but that Kuro never was. Keith understands that now.

So although he is no longer being locked away behind prison bars and metal doors, Keith finds himself ensnared by an altogether different trap: camaraderie.

Keith can admit, in the privacy of his thoughts, that if Lance were to tragically crash his lion against a rocky cliff Keith would feel a twinge of annoyance. Pity, possibly. Maybe even regret.

They were a team, for better or for worse, and having to replace one or more of the paladins would decidedly set them back in their quest to defeat Zarkon. So it is only in Keith's best interest that he educates them as warrior and occasionally saves their lives.

It's all perfectly logical, in his opportunist's opinion, even if Shiro will sometimes give him those looks, soft with pride, from across the room when Keith is off-handedly teaching Pidge some Galra because she rightly considers it a necessary skill of survival. She is the most reluctant when is comes to trusting Keith and it's curious because she is so hung up on her family while Keith does not care for his own except for the latent urge to one day run Zarkon and Lotor through with his bayard.

But, whenever he sees the driven hunger in Pidge's eyes, he cannot help but wonder whether his own thirst for revenge is rather due to his Galran upbringing or that infinitesimal part of him that is wholly human.

 

There are too many evenings when they just wind up on the couch in the common area. They are all exhausted from a long day's mission and that is the only reason why Keith does not immediately retreat to the training deck.

He ends up sitting next to Shiro, or maybe Shiro ends up sitting next to him, it makes little difference. Shiro has his eyes closed, not doing much of anything, but Keith is reading a somewhat dated text on battle strategies. It's a slow-going process. Altean, before the unexpected unearthing of Princess Allura and Coran, was a dead language. After he had been legitimized as Zarkon's son, Keith had been expected to learn at least the basics of a great numbers of languages, Altean among them, as though there weren't perfectly good translation programs around. He had also been taught etiquette and proper conduct, and it had all been a great laugh.

Keith's instructor had been an wizened Galra, his wrinkly skin more gray than purple, and Keith had suspected that he must have been around since the fall of Altea. Occasionally, Keith had felt a little bad about loudly scoffing at some of the lessons, but it had been impossible not to, considering it included such things as that a prince should keep no concubines and not carelessly sill his seed for fear of illegitimate contenders for the throne popping up.

Keith was the living embodiment of how Zarkon had apparently slept through that particular lesson and maybe that was also the reason why Keith was the only one who listened. Because he had spilled his seed carelessly many times but never in a place where it could bear fruit.

Keith blinks his tired eyes away from his reading pad, letting his gaze flick through the room more out of paranoid habit than anything else. It's just in time to catch how Hunk is elbowing Lance in the side where they are sprawled on the couch together.

Hunk is grinning back at Keith but when Lance looks over, too, a small unhappy frown settles on Lance's face. Keith purses his lips and lowers his head again; it wouldn't do to provoke a fight now, not when Keith feels reasonably content in the moment.  
And yet he cannot help but wonder what Hunk and Lance had seen when they had looked at him. Was it some sort of inside joke between the two of them? Were they talking about him behind his back? Had he done anything to entice their malice?

Like this, he is unable to concentrate on his reading, subtly tries to assess the overall mood of the room instead. And then he becomes aware of one glaring detail that had inexplicably escaped his notice.

Shiro's fingers, the ones of flesh and bone and too many tender touches, must at some point have walked themselves across the backrest of the couch and into the depths of Keith's hair, like a thief in the night.

Keith does not freeze, nothing so obvious as that, but the next breath he exhales is a little bit more deliberate. Shiro does not seem to notice. From his periphery, Keith can tell that Shiro's eyes are still closed, that his entire body, leaning back and exposing his chest, is a picture of casual relaxation.

How can he be so trusting, Keith wonders, when he had spent a lot of time in Galran prisons and Galran games? He knew Shiro's memories of his captivity had not yet fully returned to him, but the man had nightmares and panic attacks that spoke of his trauma. Even if he wanted to he should not have been physically able to show such vulnerability in front this ragtag little group who were still more strangers than friends.

Stupidity, Keith knows, can easily be mistaken for strength, but in this moment he cannot tell which is which.

In the end, it does not matter. Shiro's chest lifts under his even breath and his fingers curl against Keith's scalp. Keith, helpless, arches into the touch.

A small burst of laughter from Hunk. Keith glances over out of reflex. Hunk is biting his lower lip and keeping his head down. Lance has rolled over onto his back and his glaring at the ceiling.

Keith doesn't get it. But he also does not get Shiro, or himself for that matter, so maybe he should just get used to forever feeling out of his depth.

 

He lets the low hunger simmer in his guts for the rest of the evening and, when the night cycle finally rolls around, he makes his way over to Shiro's cabin. He is unsure what has got him so keyed up, but when he prowls through the corridors he feels like a predator. It's just a well, though. Shiro can throw him to the floor and dominate him a little; that ought to get all that restless energy out of his system.

He punches his request to enter into the control panel and, when it is given a moment later and the door swishes open, he steps in. Shiro, as though he had not spent the past few hours lounging around on the couch, is now lying sprawled out on the bed.

“Hey,” Keith says simply as he stalks closer.

He has already divested himself of his shirt, barefoot and only clad in the skin-hugging black pants of his thermo suit. It's a good look, he thinks, seductive and easily accessible. Shiro has been weak to it more than once so his reaction now is more than lackluster in comparison.

His gaze draws itself along Keith's figure like thick fog, kind of taken but, in the end, too ephemeral to make anything of it. Undeterred, Keith sits down on the edge of the mattress, sliding his hand across Shiro's chest.

Yet Shiro just groans, rubs both hands over his face.

“I'm kind of tired, to be honest,” he says with a vaguely apologetic smile.

“I'll wake you up,” Keith promises with a purr and slithers his way down along Shiro's prone body.

He kneads him through the fabric of his sleep pants and then tugs them down a little, just enough to expose his cock. Keith hums and gives a little lick before nuzzling his nose against it, noting how clean Shiro smells and suspecting that he must just have taken a shower just a little while earlier.

He takes the head into his mouth, suckles at it and then presses the flat of his tongue into the slit, trying to coax it into hardness. After a few moments, though, he notices that it is not really working.

“Keith,” Shiro laughs weakly. His hand reaches out to tilt up Keith's chin, gently pulling him off, “Sorry, but I'm really not...”

He doesn't finish the sentence, just blinks tiredly.

It shouldn't be a big deal. Keith understands that humans need more rest than Galra. He understands that it can't be helped. And yet this is the first time that Shiro has ever turned him away and that in itself makes it feel like a colossal rejection.

He gives a curt nod and rolls himself off the bed and onto his feet, with half a mind to just go to the training deck instead, to subject his body to some other strenuous activity. Shiro's hand on his wrist stops him.

“Stay,” Shiro says.

“What for?” Keith asks with a frown, puzzled even more by Shiro's chagrined smile.

“I wouldn't mind some company.”

Keith gives him a searching look, trying to make sense of those words. “But you said-”

“There are different kinds of company,” Shiro interrupts him, his tone kind instead of condescending, “For now just... stay here.”

In lieu of a more elaborate explanation, he just scoots over on the mattress, opening up some space. Keith stares down at it.

“You don't have to,” Shiro tells him, his eyes already closing again, “But I think it would be nice.”

Keith sits. He does not quite know why, tells himself it's in hope that Shiro might wake up a little later and be in need of sex after all and that it's simply more convenient to remain here instead of going back to his own cabin which is a full ten steps down the corridor.

But in the end the reason does not matter. Keith sits, Keith lies down, Keith pillows his head on Shiro's biceps. Surely, it will quickly become uncomfortable and Shiro will push him off, but for now it doesn't matter.

“Thanks,” Shiro says with a quiet exhale. He already seems to be halfway asleep.

Keith blinks up at the fluorescent lights above them.

He thinks he could sleep, too, not in the way of need but simply because it feels comfortable to do so, a kind of luxury in the sensation. Therefore he does not mind per se, but the overall situation still feels odd to him.

They have fallen asleep and spent the night together before, more and more frequently in the past weeks. But that had always been with rather exhaustive sex as a precursor. Never like this, never so... familiar.

Keith, too awake by far, finds himself acutely aware of several things that might otherwise have escaped his notice. How, in place of a wet patch on the sheets, Shiro's hair is still a little damp, moistness seeping into the pillow. How, in the absence of sweat and sex, there is merely the scent skin and soap instead. How their bodies are usually nude while now Keith can already feel a crease forming on his cheek where it is resting against the seam of Shiro's shirt sleeve.

Next to him, Shiro is snoring lightly and his rib cage raises and expands with each breath. If it weren't for the scars on his face and the shadows underneath his eyes, he'd look almost peaceful.

Certain that Shiro is fully asleep by now, Keith reaches out a hand and carefully sinks his fingers into the tuft of white hair at Shiro's forehead. The softness of it always surprises him when he expects it to be coarse and brittle. It's a little bit like Shiro in that regard. Changed, certainly, after what had been endured. Yet different, Keith reminds himself, does not always mean worse.

With his claws scritching at Shiro's scalp he cannot help but remember their first time, when Shiro had brutally fucked him and then insisted on post-coital affections. Keith had relented against his will and, ironically, that had been the only of Shiro's transgressions that had felt like a true violation. And yet Keith had let it happen again and again and never bothered to complain after that first time.

Keith had not understood it then and understands it even less now that there was no coitus in the first place. He shouldn't stay, he thinks. He shouldn't indulge.

Suddenly, the brightness of the walls feels oppressive, as though he ought to be examining his reasoning more closely when he really does not care to.

“Lights out,” he says instead and the room bathes itself in dark.

 

Their next mission is a follow-up on the previous one and relatively straight-forward. The tribe they had helped out before had lamented how many of their own had been abducted by the Galra, most likely to be taken to one of the labor camps on the planet.

Shiro, he of self-sacrifice and bleeding heart, had promptly promised that they would do their best to free them and return them to their families.

So that is what today is all about, no grand battle, no intel gathering, just a small thorn in Zarkon's side, a pebble in his shoe. Keith is not happy about it, but he sees no reason to complain.

Initially, before the word of Voltron's revival had gotten around, people had been skeptical and even more so when they first laid eyes on him. Not all Galra are soldiers, of course, and many pursue non-militaristic occupations. But Keith marches when he walks, Keith assesses threats with sharp eyes. He may no longer be dressed like one of his sire's soldiers, but his past can still be read in his every movement.

So people still give him scared looks but, after he saves their children, they thank him with tears in their eyes.

There are two separate Galran outposts on the planet, rather far from each other, and Allura decides that it would be best to split up the team and venture a stealth invasion at the same time. They cannot simply attack, for fear of endangering the imprisoned natives. Keith almost rolls his eyes at how much easier it would be to win battle without scruples, but he keeps himself in check.

One of the bases is smaller, and Shiro decides that Lance and Keith will cover that one and that Keith will be in charge. They cannot simply have Lance lead a mission, for fear of destroying the whole damn planet. Keith openly smirks when Lance starts grinding his teeth at him.

Finally, they make their way into the hangar, Keith with his helmet under his arm and his thoughts already on how to best infiltrate the base. Ahead of him, the five lions wait in anticipation. A mere thought and Red lowers her head.

“Keith.”

At the sound of Shiro's voice, Keith stops and glances back over his shoulder to where the others have gathered, no one turned toward their lion yet.

“What?” he demands.

“Don't you wanna say goodbye?” Shiro asks meaningfully. He's got an expectant look perched on his face; Keith kind of wants to knock it off.

“On Galra we do not say goodbye before missions,” he says, fully turning around and squaring his shoulders, “It brings bad luck.”

More accurately, it denoted that there would be no return. One did not tempt one's fate.

By now, the others are curiously watching the exchange, their gazes pinpricks along Keith's purple skin.

“I wouldn't have taken you for the superstitious kind,” Shiro notes, “Not to mention that you are not on Galra.”

“But my blood is of her rivers and my heart of her heart's flame,” Keith says, an old saying that had developed since the empire had started expanding and their home planet was sorely missed by many.

Though both the humans and the Alteans might relate to the sentiment, they do not understand the strange words and only give Keith mystified looks.

“Get with it, Lance,” he says curtly and, when he turns away again, Red is already welcoming him.

 

Keith has to hand it to Lance, the guy really knows how to sneak into a military outpost.

“I used to sneak out of the Garrison all of the time,” Lance boasts, thumping his chest, “Sometimes you just gotta make a virtue out of necessity.”

Or rather, Keith corrects himself, he would be good at if if only he knew how to shut up.

Lance, as Keith understands, has grown up in a big family where you just had to learn how to make yourself heard. Keith could relate to that, but he had always ended up using his fists.

Right now he kind wants to use them, too, because even as they are making their way through the hallways of the outpost Lance still insists on trying to get a conversation going.

“You've done some sneaking in your time, too, huh?”

Keith tries to find some open hostility in there because the stars know Lance has never heard of true subtlety, but after the third time of rolling the words around in his head he still comes up blank.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asks, his shoulders hitching up, uncertain what to expect.

“Oh, you know,” Lance gives an elaborate shrug, “You and Shiro sneaking around on that ship, behind Zarkon's back. Sounds exciting. Star-crossed lovers and all, am I right?”

“You're not,” Keith says and means everything. He hadn't tried to hide his making use of the champion, and the two of them had certainly not been what anyone would consider a tragic romance from the old epics.

“Huh,” Lance huffs, hoisting his bayard in his grip, “Then I guess I'm... still not getting it.”

“What's there to get?” Keith demands. He doesn't want to keep talking but he has long since figured out that the best way to get Lance to shut up was to first indulge him for a little while.

“I mean,” Lance shrugs again, more jerkily and this time it makes the barrel of his bayard jostle dangerously, “You guys have this crazy sex life and-”

“It's not crazy,” Keith claims, but Lance just gives him a deadpan stare.

“He fucked you while you were in handcuffs. In a prison cell. And technically our hostage. And you liked it.”

“Are you jealous?” Keith asks, unable to think of something else, but then he spots the sudden blush on Lance's cheek, “You are!”

Before Lance can even deny anything, Keith has cornered him up against the wall.

“Or maybe you are just curious?” he wants to know, leaning in close so he can drop his voice to a husky whisper, “You could join us sometime. I'd let you.”

He wouldn't. He does not share. But teasing Lance is fun because, unlike Shiro, he can be goaded so easily.

“Shiro fucks so well,” Keith purrs, running the tip of his nose along Lance's warm cheek, before pulling back again. “Or,” he adds, deliberately letting his gaze dip down to Lance's lips, “Would you rather do me?”

Lance doesn't say anything now, just fixes his glare to the ceiling and keeps it there.

“You're a virgin, aren't you?” Keith reminds him, knowing exactly which buttons to push, “I could change that.”

Lance blows out a harsh breath through his nose.

“I spent the past three years at an elite military institution where fraternization was not exactly encouraged,” he points out, “Not to mention that it was located in the middle of the desert. Which, I guess, is better than being stuck in space where half of the alien species we meet have tentacles which I am not particularly into.” He pushes against Keith's chest then, pushes him back so he can free himself, “So yes, I've never gone all the way. Doesn't mean I'm gonna throw myself at the next best person.”

Keith cocks an eyebrow, “So you mean your indiscriminate attempts at flirting with at least three members of every sentient species we run into are just... common courtesy?”

“I _mean_ ,” Lance explains, pointedly making to stalk down the hallway again, “That I would like for it to mean something. Not- not true love necessarily, but just... I want to like the person. So I guess I don't quite get why you and Shiro just...”

He trails off, uncertain. Perhaps he has realized how this kind of conversation is wholly unsuited for two men of their respective tempers, especially while they are running a high-risk mission.

“When I first saw him,” Keith says anyway, “He was covered in blood and fighting for his life.”

He had seen him and he had wanted the champion to hurt him, to make him feel in the only way Keith was familiar with.

“I respected him,” he recalls what still holds true, “And I despised him.”

“So you hooked up with him?” Lance asks dubiously.

“Pleasure is a complex thing,” Keith tells him, “Maybe you'll understand one day.”

Lance groans, but then quickly sobers up again.

“Just... don't hurt him, okay?” he implores, completely changing not the exactly the topic but certainly the tone of the conversation, “Not like _that_ , if he's into it, whatever, I mean, I mean-”

He flounders, breaks off, starts anew, “You didn't know him before he left for Kerberos. He was the Garrison's golden boy. Everyone loved him. He put stars into the new cadets' eyes. I looked up to him since I first enrolled. And then he just... disappears. And they call it a pilot error.”

Lance seems angry now, his fingers clenching around his bayard, “When we found him wandering through the desert after he crashed, we couldn't believe it at first. He looked so different and when he started talking about Voltron and Zarkon we thought he was delusional. But then I heard Blue in my head and... Fact is, he's been through enough, alright?”

“So what,” Keith challenges with narrow eyes, “You want me to keep my distance?”

“No,” Lance shakes his head, “That's not it. I can't quite figure out why but... I think you're good for him.”

He does not elaborate. Keith does not give him a chance. They have reached the end of the hallway and, instead of doors or other corridors branching off, they find an abyss right in front of them. Keith inches closer and glances down; next to him Lance is doing the same.

“Seems like a good place to keep prisoners,” Lance notes, “I can't even see the ground.”

“I can,” Keith says, his sight naturally better in the half-dark, “It's not that deep.”

“Not that deep,” Lance scoffs, “How do we get down- Oh, for fuck's-.”

Keith, leaping and then falling, does not stay to hear the end of it. The darkness of the natural chasm underneath the outpost swallows him up within a blink and then he hits the ground, smoothly dropping into a roll to alleviate the worst of the impact.

Three seconds later, Lance makes the mistake of imitating the first part of Keith's jump but not the second. His yelp echoes off the rough walls and then he is down on the ground, clutching at his ankle.

“It's due to your inferior human physique,” Keith points out blithely.

“Says the half-human hybrid,” Lance gripes, pushing himself into a sitting position and examining his foot as best as he can through his armored suit.

“Is it broken?”

“Don't think so,” Lance says, his face pulled into a grimace as he carefully moves the joint around, “Might as well be, though.

“Great,” Keith sighs.

“Shut up,” Lance huffs, somehow managing to get to his feet. He manages to hobble along for a few awkward steps and then goes down again. “Yeah, that's not working.”

“Two options then,” Keith lists, “Either I leave you here to knock out any stray guards. Or I can carry you.”

Lance's lips purse. They both know that the outcome of the mission and therefore the lives of many people are at stake.

“No bridal-carry,” he says, “And no piggyback.”

So Keith unceremoniously slings him over his shoulder and marches on.

“I hate you,” Lance hisses under his breath, “Isn't it enough that you are purple? Why do you get to have superhuman strength, too?”

“You view being purple as an advantage?”  
“I happen to _like_ purple,” Lance admits as though it pains him, “It's very close to blue.”

“Did you hit your head, too, when you fell down?”

He can tell Lance is gearing up for a smart retort, but then they both hush, the sound of footsteps in their ears.

Guards, Keith knows from the rhythmic marching, moving into their direction. He and Lance probably should have taken greater care to be silent. The tunnel surrounding them must have carried their voices.

“Dammit,” he curses under his breath. He glances around until he finds a small nook in the rough walls, more of an outcrop of rock than a alcove, but this is were he hastily deposits Lance, pushing him into the shadows. Plan B is was, then.

“Stay here,” he orders, already turning away.

“What?” Lance protests predictably, “No!”

“Stay. Here,” Keith repeats with emphasis, “I'm going to distract them.”

Fight them head-on, he means of course, but Lance doesn't need to worry about that.

“And what about me?” Lance complains, pointedly lifting his bayard, “I can still fight.”

“Make sure there isn't any backup coming my way,” Keith instructs him, “Shoot down any guard that might pass by.”

“Fine,” Lance says, though he seems unhappy with it, “Just make sure you keep an eye out for the prisoners.”

Keith had almost forgotten about that.

“Sure,” he says. Then he reaches for his own weapon.

 

They free the prisoners and everyone makes it out alive and unharmed. Safe for Lance's ankle but that should quickly be healed after one cycle in the healing pod.

When the all reunite in the Castle of Lions, Lance preens under Allura's praise, Pidge ridicules the Galra's security system for breaking and entering wasn't so much that when all it took was a Galran handprint to a scanner in order to sneak into a facility, and Shiro heartily claps Keith on the back.

“Good work,” he says, leaving his hand to rest on Keith's shoulder, “I knew I could trust you with that mission.”

Keith does not mention that he had not cared for the prisoners, that he would have preferred to just blow up the outpost straight away, that he had cut down his fellow Galran and imagined his father's visage in their place.

“Wasn't difficult,” he says instead and when he adds a shrug it's just enough to make Shiro's touch fall away.

“Anyone else starving?” Hunk asks the room at large, “The Kellem gave us a ton of food as a thank you and I wanna check out which of it won't poison us.”

Keith follows him to the kitchens.

 

That night, Shiro fucks him gently.

Too gently, for Keith's tastes.

It feels good to unwind like this after a long day, orgasm just far enough out of reach that he does not feel like chasing after it just yet. But he does not enjoy the implications of it, of the slow controlled manner in which Shiro is moving in him, above him.

Before long, Keith grows sick of it. In an attempt to reverse their roles and regain some control of the situation, he grabs Shiro by the shoulders and flips them around. Like this, Shiro is on his back with Keith sitting astride him, knees on either side.

He puts a palm to Shiro's chest to steady himself and then viciously grinds his ass down, forcing Shiro's cock farther into himself. It sparks a solid kind of pleasure in the pit of his stomach, deep-rooted but nowhere near in bloom yet. He rolls his hips, lifts himself up, hovers for a moment, at that point where the head of Shiro's cock is stretching him wide, waits till the frustration of emptiness sets in. Then he pushes down again, moaning lowly as Shiro meets him halfway.

The muscles on the insides of Keith's thighs quickly begin to burn under the repeated strain, even with Shiro's hands on his hips helping him along, but this mild pain gives Keith something to focus on, something that reminds him of how things should be between them. Hurtful. Brief.

Then he makes the mistake up looking up and at Shiro's face.

Shiro whose eyes are gray and shining like twin meteorites, who has softness lingering in the corners of his usually tense mouth, who looks up at Keith with a certain kind of unselfconscious fondness.

Keith's breath catches and he blames it on how Shiro penetrates him at just the right angle, but then he pitches himself forward, burying his face against the side of Shiro's neck so he doesn't have to see him anymore. Shiro's hands move from Keith's sides to cup themselves around the globes of Keith's ass, kneading them as the two of them move against each other.

In this position, the pleasure is minimal at best, no friction, no ache, and Keith bites his lower lip because he does not like this, he does not. One of Shiro's fingers trails its way along Keith's crack, caressing where Keith is swallowing him, and Keith silently begs him to force that finger inside as well, to hurt Keith a little, to fill him up and dominate him because that is what this is about.

But Shiro does nothing like that.

Instead, with his mouth against Keith's ear, he says, “You could fuck me sometime. If you wanted to.”

He's offering his ass but, in a lackadaisical manner, he also brings equality into the game. Balance. No longer a pair of scales, constantly shifting weight from from side to the other, but perfect equilibrium.

In a knee-jerk reaction, Keith says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“I invited Lance to join us,” he reveals, relieved when Shiro splutters in response and props himself up on his elbows.

“What on- _Lance_?”

“Did you have anyone else in mind?” Keith asks with a chuckle and Shiro turns an unhappy frown on him.

“That's not what I meant and you know it.”

“Have you never thought about it?” Keith wonders, ghosting his parted lips across Shiro's temple, the shell of his ear, “Of you watching while someone else is holding me down, fucking me, making me cry out?”

The world spins around him, white lights, and then he understands that Shiro has flipped them around again, nailing Keith to the mattress.

“ _No_ ,” Shiro growls lowly, “So don't even think about asking anyone anything like that every again.”

“Possessive,” Keith notes mildly.

His heart is racing. Shiro's expression above him is downright fearsome. Keith had intended to agitate him, of course, but he hadn't expected for it to work quite so beautifully. He suppresses a triumphant smirk.

When Shiro kisses him, it's all teeth and Keith whimpers into it, starved. This is how things are meant to be.

They are moments away from fucking properly this time and Keith struggles a little, trying to adjust himself, but he can't quite decide which position he wants to be taken in. He wishes to see Shiro's face but he also wants the degradation of being pushed down, of being crushed, unable to move.

Finally, Shiro takes the decision from him, simply shoving him onto his side and hiking one of Keith's legs up. His other hand is in Keith's hair, twisting his head back.

The tendons in Keith's neck strain and he can already tell that he is going to feel this tomorrow, all of this, Shiro's cock in his ass, his fingertips digging into the soft flesh of Keith's thigh. But, he thinks, the one thing he is truly going to remember is how Shiro does not look away from him, not even for a second, his gaze intense and focused on each twitch of Keith's face, his every exhale. And Keith, in the almost instinctual reaction of the prey staring back at the predator wondering whether this encounter means certain death, finds himself just as incapable of looking away.

So this is how they fuck, so much better than before, till Keith feels raw and every single bit of him is aching in its own particular manner. Sweat has gathered at the small of his back, making him shiver as it cools down, and he lets little mewls escape him with every well-aimed thrust.

Towards the end, with both of them becoming more urgent, Shiro sits up on his haunches, shoves Keith down, his leg thrown over his own shoulder, before leaning forward and bending him in half.

Keith grunts at the shift in angle and pressure, tilts his head back and-

Shiro's hands, both of them, circle themselves around Keith's neck like precious jewelry.

“ _Yes_ ,” Keith breathes, and then he doesn't breathe at all because Shiro is pressing down on him. They've done this often enough already, one of their favorite pastimes, so Shiro knows exactly what to do, how much strength to apply to cut of Keith's airflow and gives him a necklace of pretty bruises without actually crushing his trachea, all the while still brutally fucking into him.

This, Keith thinks with his eyes rolling back in his skull, is his utmost definition of trust. This is how far he will go. His body fights and convulses, divorced from the remnants of his consciousness, and he thinks pleasure might be wiping him blank or maybe that's just the lack of oxygen.

He blacks out to the sound of Shiro's climax.

 

Their next mission comes soon after.

Keith does not think much of it, at first. As far as he is concerned, supply runs are necessary but not exactly exciting, no matter how important Coran tries to make the matter sound. Fact is, they are out of Blasium, a liquidized metal that can only be harvested from a certain number of planets and that is vital to the functionings of the ship.

“The Benrali are a peace-loving people,” Coran explains, “They shouldn't give you any trouble if you ask them nicely.”

Benrali, Keith thinks, faintly trying to recall where he had heard that name before.  
“What's the planet called?” Pidge wants to know.

“Bimir,” Coran replies, “The core of it is entirely made of Blasium. One has to be careful with the harvesting process, though. Removing to much upsets the balance of the planet.”

It's a grim reminder of the incident with the Balmera but, when Keith bites the inside of his cheek till he tastes blood, it's for a different reason.

Bimir. One of many shadows that still haunt him. It had been a while, certainly, but nowhere near enough. It doesn't matter, though. No one knows but him. No one else must know. He would not want to bear the disappointed stares of the others.

Once Coran is done with his long-winded explanation, it is decided that Keith and Pidge will visit the Benrali, while the other three will run another errand in a different quadrant.

For reasons of discretion, they will merely take the green lion along, though Keith does not much like the idea of leaving his greatest ally behind. But, he figures, at least Pidge will make a more capable companion than Lance. Small mercies, he reminds himself as though he had ever experienced the meaning of the word.

In the hangar, while Lance and Hunk are riling up Pidge with whatever nonsense inspired their simple minds, Shiro seems to be feeling playful in a different manner.

With what little patience is at his disposal, Keith is waiting by the Green Lion, hoping her pilot will join them soon. Instead, it is Shiro who simply pulls him behind Green's leg, away from potentially prying eyes.

“What is i-” Keith manages to say, finding himself pushed up against a metal paw, but then Shiro's lips are already nipping at his, kissing him into silence.

Keith, just for the heck of it, gives as good as he gets. He tries to turn it into something dirty, pushes spit and his tongue into Shiro's mouth but Shiro, somehow, manages to keep them afloat, the airy quality of his kisses never fading. Airy because they seem to have stolen all the oxygen from Keith's lungs, leaving him light-headed and mildly disoriented.

“Hrm hrm,” someone says pointedly, more of a reproach than the actual clearing of a throat, and when they finally look over Pidge is glowering at them.

“Just a moment, Pidge,” Shiro says and she shakes her head in exasperation but does climb into the Green Lion without further objections.

“Take care,” Shiro says, bestowing another kiss onto Keith's mouth, but Keith just puts a palm against his chest.

“Goodbye, Shiro,” he says pointedly and pushes out of his arms.

“I am never going to complain about Lance randomly flirting again,” Pidge says when he joins her in the cockpit, “Flirting is so much more bearable.”

“You tell him that,” Keith murmurs, idly dragging the side of his thumb across his bottom lip as though that would magically remove whatever virus Shiro had infected him with.

 

“Wow,” Pidge says, “That's beautiful.”

Ahead of them stretches a vast field of flowers in vibrant shades of blue, swaying in the wind like ripples on a lake.

Kadmin, Keith knows, commonly used as a remedy for various ailments. The better half of the planet had once been covered by them. When they burned, they released a heady almost intoxicating smell, like incense. The flames had dyed the pale pink sky a dangerous red, he remembers, and the screams had ripped apart whatever idyll there used to be.

“We're not here to find a spot for a picnic,” he points out morosely and trudges onward.

“Yeah yeah,” Pidge complains, but follows.

For a while, they walk in silence. Around them, the scars of the war become more visible upon the landscape, abandoned houses, fallen trees. The path underneath their feet has been trodden solid by hundreds of Galran soldiers.

Pidge, maybe in an effort to take her mind off the bleak panorama, pulls a Lance and decides to make conversation.

“So,” she says resolutely, “I've been wondering.”

Here we go, Keith thinks, fully expecting her to do what Lance had done and hold a sermon about how to treat their dear leader well.

“Shiro said you're half-human, right?” she continues and that actually makes Keith almost stumble in surprise.

“I don't know for certain,” he hedges instead, throwing her a sideways glance but she keeps staring ahead.

“Here's the thing, though,” she explains, “After Kerberos, I started looking into other missions that were lost. Not just the Garrison's, but from different space programs all over the world. I tried to find a pattern because some of that stuff was suspicious as hell.”

“Suspicious how?”

“Y'know,” she gives a violent shrug, “Cover-ups. Lies. Excuses that didn't quite make sense, placations for grieving families.”

Her nose scrunches up but she keeps going.

“One of them stuck out to me. There was the Titan mission, about twenty Terran years ago. They were supposed to map the moons in Saturn's orbit, but they never even made it. Transmissions were just suddenly down. It was written down as an engineering malfunction and the crew was declared dead. Empty coffins for all of them, just like they did with my dad and my brother. And Shiro.”

Her hands clench into fists, though by now her helpless anger from back then must have burnt its way into righteous fury, towards the Galra, towards the Garrison.

“I got stuck on that case,” she admits, “I just... never even heard of them before, because that failure had been swept under the rug like it never happened, but when I came across them it felt like I was doing them a service. That, if I remembered them, if I managed to prove that Kerberos had not simply been a piloting error, then it was some justice for the Titan crew as well.”

She snuffles a little, though there are no outright tears on her face.

“Britta Larson was the primary scientist, responsible for taking the samples. She had three kids and an Albert Einstein World Award for Science. Ecco Paolo, the youngest of the bunch. He was the navigator and I got my hands on some of his calculations – they were flawless. The engineer was Upendo Kihura. She was a trouper and known to always keep a calm head; I've no idea why they thought it'd be convincing to indirectly put the blame on her. And number four. Thirty-one years old, grew up just outside of Houston, and was planning to get married after her return. It hadn't been her first trip to space but it ended up being her last. Her name was Lori Kogane and she was the pilot.”

“That,” Keith says, “Was my mother.”

He says it with certainty and little melancholy. He had already known, in a way, and Pidge had merely filled in some of the blanks.

Whenever a new species was found, Zarkon got first pick of whether he wanted one of them for his harem. And Lori Kogane had been unlucky enough to be chosen.

Pidge just gives a tight now.

“I thought so,” she says, “I think... you kind of look like her, a little.”  
She makes a vague gesture, as though to indicate something underneath his odd-colored skin. For a moment, neither of them says anything. Then Pidge continues.

“Did she... did she tell you about earth? Is that why you helped Shiro escape?”

Why you let him fuck you, she doesn't say, but it's implied.

“I never knew her,” Keith replies, “She died during my birth.”

Not after. During. Keith had been cut from his dead mother's womb to be brought into this universe. Strange to think that she had survived the rape at the hands of his sire, but had been torn apart bearing his spawn.  
She had had time to name him, though, and it was yet another reminder of his human heritage. Keith, a bastard in every sense of the word, had been raised in a cohort, as was common for lower class Galra. He had been the smallest, the weakest, the ugliest, a childhood which had eventually turned him into the strongest.

Of his mother he had had nothing but a digital picture in the prison records, accompanied by a recording of her own voice saying her own name, so strange and simple. She had been dark-haired, like him, and slight, like him. Stubborn, too, if the pinch of her eyebrows was anything to go by.

They are walking still, but now it is Pidge who is watching him from the corner of her eye. In that moment, it occurs to Keith that him and her might have something in common after all. Family members lost to the cruelty of the Galra. A reactionary instinct to push others away. A thirst for revenge.

And Keith had never quite considered it before but he thinks that he would quite like to see Pidge reunited with her father and brother, if only to have another excuse to knock Zarkon off his throne.

 

The Benrali have several settlements across the planet, few of them big enough to figure as actual cities. They are peaceful, non-militaristic and they had been wholly unprepared for the Galran invasion. Accordingly, Pidge and Keith's unexpected arrival in the small village by the woods is initially treated with suspicion.

The atmosphere on Bimir is not breathable for humans. It would be for Galra as Keith knows from experience, but he still makes sure to keep his helmet on and his head down, letting Pidge do the talking. The two of them are not the ideal candidates for this mission. Literally anyone else on the team is better suited to making nice with people in order to gain their favor. Pidge is often too impatient and abrasive by far and Keith... Well. Keith is Keith.

They are lucky, though. The village eldest, a Benrali woman named Zel, grew up on magical stories of Voltron and she is more than willing to welcome them into her home. Both Pidge and Keith would rather just get the resources they need and make their way back to the Castle of Lions, but Allura had pointedly reminded them of the importance of their manners. Voltron has to be more than a knight in shining armor but an approachable companion.

So they follow Zel into her house which seems to double as city hall because half of the village squeezes in as well, curious about the newcomers. In what much be the living-area, Zel beckons them to get comfortable on the many pillows strewn on the floor.

Benrali hospitality knows no bounds, it seems, because soon enough people are carrying in plates of food, lifting baskets full of fruit through the open windows. Keith and Pidge, in their helmets, are unable to eat anything, but they make sure that their appreciation of the gesture is known.

“This is a new settlement,” Zel explains, indicating to the windows and the village beyond it, “Many of us fled from the cities after the attacks.”

“When was that?” Pidge asks, darting a subtle glance across the room. Maybe she is only just now noticing how several of the Benrali carry the marks of war upon them, just like the rest of the planet does.

There's a boy with crutches, a woman with an eye patch, too many children altogether, many of them doubtlessly orphaned.

“Three years ago,” Zel replies, her gaze turning inward, “They came over night, never even giving up the chance for negotiation. They took what they wanted and left again.” A breath shudders out of her mouth. “I lost my daughter. And her children. Many of our men were taken to who knows where.”

“Labor camps,” Pidge says, her shoulders hunched up, “They took my brother and my father, too.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Zel says gently as though she had not endured so much more.

Keith glares down at his knees. He has nothing to add to the conversation.

Three years ago, before he had even been given his own fighter jet and when royalty had been nothing but untouchable, Keith had still been a common foot soldier in any army of many. He had been keen with a gun, sharp with a sword and of quick instincts when it came to battle. Not that there had been much of a battle back then. Only the pleading screams of the Benrali as the Galra, three times their size, plowed through their cities, as they trampled them like the pretty blue flowers that used to blossom everywhere.  
And Keith doesn't know for sure whether he had killed any of them, but he also doesn't know for sure that he hadn't, which means he has no excuse. Back then, he had been a nothing but a cog in the system, smoothly moving along, even though he did not approve of the clockwork as such.

So he turned and he turned as time ground against him.

“We can show you where the Blasium grows,” one of the Benrali says in that moment and Keith reminds himself that the past is the past and that the dead will stay dead.

Now, he fought against Zarkon. Now, he was part of Voltron. Now, he belonged to the good guys, even if he did not define himself as such.

But the Benrali did not need to know.

 

The Blasium is harvested via a complicated tunnel system in the earth which the Benrali are all too happy to let them explore.

“You might not fit,” the one named Lopate tells Keith, tilting his head back to look up at him, “You are too tall.”

“That's alright,” Keith shrugs, “Pidge is plenty short.”

“Hey!” Pidge complains and then ducks into the tunnel because she is, in fact, of average height in the eyes of the Benrali.

So Keith waits, half keeping guard and half keeping out of the way.

In an effort to bury his guilt about the invasion three year ago, he instead calls upon the memories of his night with Shiro this past week.

Looking back at it now it had been an almost surreal scenario, the manner in which Shiro had choked him out, patiently waited for him to wake up again, only to give him a divine massage, his hands as steady and skillful as when they had been wrapped around Keith's neck. Keith himself had still been bleary-eyed and weak as a newborn, letting the caresses wash over him in mindless acceptance.

That, sometimes, scared him the most. Whenever he let Shiro push him around, there was always the knowledge that he could fight back. He could break free of almost any bounds, he could bite and scratch and gouge out eyes, if need be. The true danger only came after, in the form of sluggish thoughts and loss of logic.

The moment his pleasure hit its apex was sometimes like an out-of-body experience, transcendental in its very essence. Keith felt like he was floating in the vast expanse of space, darkness around him but stars, too, just as his fingertips. There was the distant knowledge that he might freeze once the roiling warmth faded, that his lungs would explode if he tried to hold his breath.

And yet. No matter how long it took his mind to return to his physical form every time after, he still refused to miss that feeling for anything. It scared him, yes, but it enticed him, too, and waking up in Shiro's arms felt a little too safe for him to really reconsider his life choices.

Keith unwillingly rouses from his less than appropriate thoughts when he notices a short Benrali standing in front of him. Well, _shorter_ , as this is one of the children, the boy with the crutches Keith had noticed before.

“My name is Czitrom,” the boy tells him without any sort of prompting.

“Uh-huh,” Keith hums, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“What's yours?” Czitrom asks pointedly.

“Keith,” Keith replies and hopes that will be enough to get rid of him.

“Your face is purple, Keith.”

“And yours is green.”

“You look like a Galra, though.”

“I don't,” Keith claims though something in his chest clenches, “Galra are taller. And uglier.”

He worries that, around them, the rest of the Benrali might catch on to the conversation and make the connection, but Keith tries to keep a cool head.

“I saw a short Galra once,” Czitrom remembers, awkwardly lifting his crutches, “During the attack. I was caught underneath some rubble.” He says it plainly, easily, as though that night had not crippled him, and then he is already moving on. “And then I saw that him again,” he says, “When the Galran prince sent out a missive that promised a reward to anyone who managed to catch his brother, dead or alive.”

Keith, despite the wailing chaos in the pit of his stomach, does not show his surprise. Neither do the other Benrali. They have stopped whatever they were doing, watching Keith not with curiosity or malicious intent, but a sort of bleak acceptance. The decision has been made.

They had known all along, Keith understands in that moment. They had taken one look at him and recognized him and seen a chance to get the Galra to return their loved ones. And even if that had not been enough, the fact that Czitrom correctly identified him as one of the soldiers who had been part of the invasion must have surely sealed his fate.

“What must be done, must be done,” Zel says. The wind angrily tugs at the skirt of her dress.

Keith stares at her, wondering whether she had been there all along. Whether she had orchestrated all of this, with Pidge in the tunnels and none the wiser of what was happening outside.

A sound behind him. Keith whirls around, hand flying to his bayard.

Lopate is right in front of him, a three-pronged device in his hands. Electricity sizzles at the end that is pointed at Keith, the end that touches Keith before he can evade it, and the force of it penetrates even through the protective layer of armor. Keith stiffens, seizes-

And then everything blacks out.

 

 

 

Keith's body aches in the way it does after too much training or after sleeping too long when tiredness had long since faded. He takes a moment to pinpoint the reason, the memories of everything that happened on Bimir returning to him in a flash. Everything clicks into place.

After the original invasion, the Galra had apparently not simply left the planet behind. Instead, they had still been in contact with the Benrali, most likely to exploit them even more, which is also why they had taken hostages. And then word of Zarkon's second son's desertion had gotten around.

The thing is, Keith cannot even fault the Benrali. What did they care for Voltron and this vague thing that was the fate of the universe? Of course they would rather take what little chance they had to free the ones that had been abducted.

It had all been a long time coming really. Being a paladin, piloting the Red Lion – it had all been too good to be true. Keith was no hero. He did not deserve any such glory. Believing in anything else had been nothing but folly.

And so, Keith already knows what he will see before he opens his eyes.

He does it anyway.

“Hello, little brother,” Lotor says and gives a smile of naked steel.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Cliffhanger. Bada-bing bada-boom.  
> I managed to work in most of the prompts you gave me last time, whatever I left out will be in the next installment which, by the way, will be from Shiro's POV again. So, once more, let me know what you think and what you would like to see. ;)


End file.
